


Fashion Show

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They make it through exactly two stores before Brittany starts getting frisky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion Show

Title: Fashion Show  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through 3x22, technically.  
Summary: They make it through exactly two stores before Brittany starts getting frisky.

  
Brittany talking her into going shopping doesn’t exactly qualify as the battle of the century; Santana can’t remember the last time she turned down a trip to the nearest mall. It’s a shame, honest to God, that she has spent her entire high school career decked out in red and white, because her fashion sense is _awesome_. And Brittany’s—jaunty-ass hats and all—is pretty sexy, too.

Shopping has been an unparalleled vice for years (or nearly unparalleled, knocked out of the running only by sex), and now that they’re free from the talons of McKinley—now that _she’s_ free, she amends with gritted teeth, because Brittany still has to figure out that whole “GED or another year in Super Senior Hell” thing—they can really make the most of their parents’ credit cards. So, when Brittany turns to her over singed waffles and the bendy straw jammed into her glass of OJ and says, “I need a new skirt”…

Santana needs new _everything_ to balance out the newness of her life—a life without Sue Sylvester, or William Schuester, or anyone telling her who to be, how to dress, the ideal way to act. She agrees without hesitation, and before she knows it, they’re on their way.

They make it through exactly two stores before Brittany starts getting frisky.

Four before her hand starts finding its way into Santana’s back pocket at jewelry counters (which earns them some really magnificent glares from the eagle-eyed old biddy manning the necklaces, _of course_ ).

Seven before Santana starts to consider the very real possibility that they might get arrested today.

Fooling around is one thing, and she will never say no where Brittany’s concerned, but fooling around in public still feels kind of new. Kind of soul-baring, in its own way, because even though the whole of Ohio knows all her dirty little secrets (or believes this is so, even though she knows there are plenty of under-wraps nuggets of sexuality still lurking out of public view), knowing and _seeing_ aren’t the same thing. Everyone here _knows_ she’s a flaming lesbian, and that’s cool by now; she doesn’t have a say one way or the other. But for everyone to be handed hand-to-God _proof_?

It doesn’t make her skin crawl anymore, doesn’t twist her heart around and around in her chest, but she still can’t resist throwing an anxious little glance over her shoulder when Brittany’s arms wind around her midsection, her lips attaching to Santana’s neck with vigor.

“Hi,” Brittany murmurs, “you’re sexy.”

“I know,” Santana replies automatically, rolling her eyes. “I thought you were looking for a skirt.”

“Found one,” Brittany jokes, punctuating the words with a swipe of her tongue. Santana shivers, leaning back on impulse until Brittany is bearing the brunt of her weight.

“You can’t wear _me_ to Quinn’s grad party.”

Brittany makes a noise in the back of her throat, letting Santana know she would like nothing more than to do just that. Her tongue sweeps low on the side of Santana’s throat, dipping into the space where her collar begins. It’s distracting, and exactly the motion that leads to _other things_ , and—

“You probably shouldn’t be doing that here,” she says shakily, though the warm sensation in the center of her belly disagrees wholeheartedly. “You probably—“

“Can’t wait until the car,” Brittany insists, and scrapes her nails beneath the hem of Santana’s blouse. Her hips lift against Santana’s ass and pull away again, far too tempting for the clearance rack in the middle of a Saturday afternoon rush.

“This—“ A bad idea, a “we could get thrown out of our favorite store” idea, the kind of idea that leads to all matter of handcuffs and disapproving mothers, but Brittany’s hand is doing wickedly innocent things to the soft skin beneath her belly button, the kind of things that aren’t _technically_ enough to get the fire burning, but are dangerously, dangerously—

She groans, softly, careful not to draw the attention of the soccer moms and teeny-boppers obliviously shopping nearby. Brittany nips at her throat, lips skimming lightly here and there, until Santana’s head rolls back against her shoulder. Her free hand grips Santana’s hip, fingertips scorching through the thin fabric of her skirt, and it’s all she can do not to hike that skirt right up and close her eyes expectantly.

But that’s the sort of behavior that gets you arrested, which means it’s exactly the sort of thing she _can’t_ do here, surrounded by half-price jeans and fashionable bikinis. It’s exactly the sort of thing they shouldn’t be doing _here_ , because while straight people in this idiot town can get away with much worse—Christ, she’s seen raunchier displays by the drinking fountains at school—a pair of lesbians will still get _lynched_ for a bit of public petting.

And _lynched_ doesn’t go so well with her Big Plans of stardom and New York and Brittany being her girl for the rest of time, so this? Has got to move elsewhere.

Barely looking at what she’s doing, Santana sweeps a series of jeans, and shorts, and awkwardly patterned graphic tees that she wouldn’t be caught _dead_ in into her arms. Brittany leans back, still holding her gently around the waist, and smiles curiously.

“This way,” Santana commands, and even though Brittany’s eyes are dark and mischevious in that _guess who’s in control today?_ way she’s got, she follows. Because where Santana leads, Brittany has almost always been willing to go, and when Santana happens to be leading them both into the dressing rooms at the rear of the store…

They’ve done it in classrooms, and under bleachers, and in locker rooms; they’ve done it in her car, and Brittany’s parents’ minivan, and in Quinn Fabray’s bedroom—twice. The number of places they have had sex is nothing short of god-like, and Santana is pretty damn proud of that fact, but they have never gone at it in a dressing room before.

But today feels like a great day for new experiences.

She tugs Brittany by the wrist until they’re both safely inside the not-so-expansive little room, and latches the door behind them. It’s busy out there, busy enough that nobody should be too concerned with the pretty teenagers trying on enough outfits to clothe the general population of Canada. Busy enough, she hopes, for them to get their freak on in peace.

The clothing drops to her feet, and in the next motion, she is ramming Brittany against the far wall and claiming her mouth. Brittany probably saw this coming hours ago, over that bendy straw in her orange juice; Brittany’s whole _reason_ for wanting to shop probably boiled down to exactly this, to the growl Santana emits as she bites down on Brittany’s lower lip, and the angle of Santana’s hips as her hands grope for Brittany’s ass. Brittany probably didn’t need a skirt at all so much as this heated moment, and Santana might be a little irked about being manipulated—except getting manipulated into sex really isn’t an angering situation. Ever. Not where Brittany’s concerned.

Her tongue dips past Brittany’s welcoming lips, sweeping through a warm mouth that opens to accept her without hesitation. Brittany is sloppy and wanting, already mewling as her hips thrust to match Santana’s aggression. Brittany’s ponytail is coming swiftly apart, and her cheeks are flushed, and when her hands meet with Santana’s hipbones, her excitement is almost too great for her to get a proper grip. Her pelvis slams into Santana’s with bruising force, and Santana groans, responding in kind as her hands delve into Brittany’s back pockets and squeeze hard.

“You should—“ Brittany pants against her lips, the words choked off when Santana’s teeth catch the skin of her neck and bite down. “You should try some of those pants on.”

“You want me to wear _more_ clothes?” Santana demands, her left hand sweeping up the back of Brittany’s shirt, nails digging in here and there along the rungs of her spine. Brittany makes a soft whimpering noise, knees buckling slightly.

“I think you’d look hot. And the hotter you look—the more I want to tear your clothes off—“

She _already_ wants to tear her clothes off; she was all but revving her engines out there on the floor, with the teasing way her fingers were sneaking along the waistband of Santana’s skirt. The idea that Brittany—the same Brittany who couldn't wait for the _car_ —can wait for even one more minute isn’t something Santana truly believes in, but…

She pushes away, hands knocking against Brittany’s shoulders until she hits the wall again. “Fine,” she says, patting her hair back into place. “Fashion show. And we’ll just see how long you can keep your shit together.”

Brittany’s eyes darken with the promise of a new game. “Five bucks says I can. Until you’ve gone through every pair of jeans on that floor.”

“ _And_ the shirts,” Santana presses. “If you can make it through each one without touching me—or _yourself_ —you get five bucks.”

“And?” Brittany licks her lips, groping without looking for the seat cushion jutting out from the wall. Santana grins.

“And free reign for the rest of the weekend. Anything you want, as many times as you want. No questions asked.”

She watches Brittany’s throat bob, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. A nod. Her grin widens.

“And if I win, same terms. No questions asked. Just you, on your knees, whenever I want you—“

She doesn’t have to finish. Brittany makes a strangled sound of approval, then tilts her chin up, clearly doing her best to pull herself together.

“Go.”

Santana grasps the hem of her shirt and slides it over her head without missing a beat. Her breasts are spilling over the cups of her dark red bra, and she figures leaving it on can only help her cause—Brittany is staring at them like they hold the secrets of the universe, her gaze half-mad with hunger already. This is going to be the easiest bet she has ever won.

She leaves the shirts pooled on the floor and strips off the skirt, standing still for a long moment in the bra and matching panties as Brittany gapes. Brittany’s will has proven pretty strong over the years, but Santana is in the best shape of her life right now after Sylvester’s endless booty camps for both Glee _and_ Cheerios, and—seriously—this is going to be a cakewalk. She glances appraisingly over her reflection in the floor-length mirror, pleased with every inch: the thin line of muscle definition down the center of her stomach, the full curve of her breasts, the wave of dark hair against her shoulders. Her thighs are toned, her calves slim, and the cut of these panties leave very little to the imagination—especially when that imagination is as rich and as knowledgable as Brittany’s.

She bends to retrieve the first pair of jeans and pauses like that, just long enough for Brittany’s ravenous gaze to light on her ass in its full splendor. Brittany has always had kind of a weakness—kind of an insatiable _never gonna get past this_ weakness, really—for her ass. If this doesn’t do it, well—give it time.

And not much time, at that.

She slides each leg of the jeans up, guiding the waistband over her hips, and Brittany watches silently, lip still between her teeth. Her fists have bunched at her knees, elbows bent, and Santana can make out the faintest of rocking motions as she rubs herself against the cushion. Cheating, technically—she should probably be losing already—but it’s no fun to call the game in the first inning. No fun at all.

And from the look on Brittany’s face, there is an awful lot of room for fun here.

She models the jeans, unbuttoned, with a short twirl and a wink. Brittany shakes her head, grinning.

“Hot.”

“Fuck-yourself-for-me hot?” Santana wonders aloud. Brittany closes her eyes, swallows hard.

“Not quite.”

A shame. She shimmies free and carelessly flings the pair into Brittany’s lap, already stretching for the next. These are tighter, she can tell even before she slides them on; they hug her ass like they’re never going to let her go, grasping her at the thighs almost painfully. A size too small, at least, nothing she would ever spend actual money on—

But maybe she should. Because Brittany’s eyes are the size of saucers, and her mouth is hanging open, and Santana can see the sharp outline of her own hips as they rise above the waistband, and—yeah, this is good. This is _definitely_ productive.

“What about these?” she asks, playful, angling her ass mere inches from Brittany and pushing toward her. “They get your vote?”

“I will buy them for you,” Brittany rasps hoarsely, jerkily shifting her thighs against the cushion. Her fingers trail up her thighs, tracing unsteadily inward. “I will—yes—“

“Careful,” Santana warns. “Your hands are getting a little…”

Brittany jerks both fists into the air and shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m great.”

“Yeah, you are,” Santana flirts, forcing the vice-grip material back down her legs again. She blindly grabs for a pair of shorts, and this time, Brittany actually squeaks as she dresses. Understandable; she’s not sure these even legally constitute clothing, with how desperately they cling to her ass and how sharply they angle up her thighs. Brittany looks like she’s damn-near _exploding_ at the sight, and Santana thinks if she were just a fraction more in love with herself than she already is, she’d probably be on that very same page.

Santana watches her girlfriend carefully, drinking in the forward thrust of Brittany’s hips as her legs spread wide and she grinds herself down. Brittany is _definitely_ cheating, _definitely_ losing—but she looks so delicious as she does, with flushed cheeks and midnight eyes that devour every inch Santana has to offer. She rides slowly against her seat, gripping its edge almost mindlessly, and Santana can’t resist brushing her palm between her own legs once the shorts are in place.

“Hey,” Brittany protests. Santana grins.

“Rules didn’t say anything about _me_ touching myself.”

“No fair,” Brittany pouts, but she’s leaning forward so as not to miss a single moment of Santana’s fingers cupped against tight denim, drawing along the seam of the shorts until her eyelashes flutter shut. Only for a moment, just long enough to draw back from the edge Brittany’s gaze has her rocketing toward, and then she releases herself. Shifts to admire herself in the mirror again. Smirks.

“I’d do me in these shorts,” she announces conversationally, pleased when Brittany angles her hips downward again and growls softly. “I’d do me for hours. I mean, _look_ at me. Am I not sincerely fuckable?”

Brittany says nothing. She shrugs.

“Fine. We’ll put these in the ‘no’ pile, then.”

Stripping them off, she tosses the shorts right in Brittany’s face, laughing when her girlfriend makes the catch with a strained expression.

“ _Santana_.”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Every pair _and_ the shirts. That was the deal.”

It’s a deal she’s hands-down winning, but she doesn’t add that part out loud. Brittany is so much more fun when she gets competitive, when she actually thinks she can win against Santana. Brittany has this thing about wanting to win that nobody ever sees coming, and when she starts to obsess about it—

Well, it can even be enough to convince her to put off masturbating to her exceedingly hot, half-naked girlfriend.

 _Barely_ , anyway; judging from the frantic, sharp movements of her lower half against that seat cushion, she doesn’t have much resolve left in her. Santana reaches for the first t-shirt and lets it sink down over her raised arms, soft cotton blanketing coiled muscle. She grasps the edge of it and pulls it out, examining the emblem cut into its front.

“Huh. Does this make me look all _super_?”

It’s tighter than she would expect a Batman shirt to be, and she thinks if it wasn’t so damn nerdy, she would actually consider pulling it off. Hell, if she was still “straight,” and still dating poor Sam Evans, she thinks wearing something like this would make the kid cream in his jeans on the spot.

Then again, Brittany isn’t even _that_ into superheroes, and she looks about as close to creaming as humanly possible. She’s leaning forward so far, she barely even qualifies as being on the seat anymore; her arms grip the discarded clothing Santana has been tossing her way like that bundle is her final lifeline, and she seems to have utterly given up on corraling the thrusts of her hips. Her eyes are glued to Santana’s cleavage beneath the V-collar of the shirt, her lip having completely vanished into her own mouth.

“Like what you see?” Santana flirts, shashaying closer. Brittany gulps and nods, arms squeezing around too-small jeans and sinfully-short shorts. Santana coyly bites her lip, pausing with her legs on either side of Brittany’s bent knees. “I don’t think you’re getting a close enough look.”

She climbs slowly over Brittany’s lap, hovering mere inches above her, and wraps both arms around Brittany’s neck for balance. Brittany’s eyes flutter shut, a ragged breath tearing from her lips as Santana intentionally pushes her breasts forward.

“Look,” she whispers huskily, and Brittany does, dropping the clothes between them to latch on instead to the edge of her seat. Chin tilted, she stares right down the gaping collar of Santana’s shirt, and yeah—it’s the world’s nerdiest piece of clothing—but if it gets _this_ reaction, she just might have to shell out the twelve bucks or whatever and make it part of her daily wardrobe.

Brittany is gaping, open-mouthed and white-knuckled around the seat edge, and Santana glances over her shoulder at the mirror. They’re beautiful together: Brittany, fully dressed in her jeans and t-shirt, the toes of her sandals digging heartily into plush carpet, and Santana, mounted here on her lap like the very picture of sex in her skimpy red panties and painted-on Batman shirt. They’re _ridiculous_ , but they’re beautiful, and she thinks this is the very reason she loves how they are together: because it’s only with Brittany that she can put herself on display like this, in a Lima dressing room, in the middle of June. It’s only with Brittany that this could ever work—not just rattling someone’s nerves for spite, but slithering under their skin for _love_.

Love and really fucking hot sex. That’s them, all wrapped up with tempting lingerie and nerdy-ass t-shirts, and it's hard not to be happy to be part of _them_.

Her nails scratch comfortably up Brittany’s neck, under her hair, and she whispers, “I think you’re losing.”

Brittany nods dumbly, hands already settling on Santana’s waist. Bending her head, Santana presses her lips to Brittany’s ear and adds, “I think you should probably get on your knees now.”

The groan Brittany releases snaps something in her, the barely-restrained impulse to snap those jeans open and bury her fingers between her girlfriend’s soaked thighs, and Santana thinks that, yes, the knees will be very nice indeed, but first— _this_. She pulls Brittany’s hair, mouth crashing down on yielding lips, growling when Brittany’s hips buck up to meet her own. She pulls Brittany’s hair and sucks on that familiar, winding tongue when it pushes into her mouth, and thinks that Brittany is _perfect_ —perfect for kissing her like she never wants to stop, perfect for whining when Santana’s hand works between them and pops that button loose, perfect for the way she stands so abruptly with her hands braced under Santana’s ass to keep her upright.

She stands, and slams Santana back against the wall, gasping when Santana clutches at her neck with one hand and slides the other between hot denim and slick skin. Her knees bend, her hips jerking, and Santana moans reflexively despite the awkward angle, and the swelling bruise where her spine has struck a _Please remove unwanted clothing_ sign mounted on the wall. Her fingertips circle Brittany’s clit, tracing through wet folds until Brittany’s breath comes faster, each thrust of her body jolting Santana against the wall.

She strokes and twists in a clumsy sort of dance, one leg hitting the floor, the other tightening around Brittany’s waist, and Brittany bites down on her shoulder to muffle her own cries. Brittany bites down abrasively, and Santana manages to slip one finger in, then two, manages to press just far enough to feel Brittany clench around her before it all collapses into sharp jerks and Brittany’s hair in her mouth.

Brittany’s arms tighten around her, holding them both steady as she struggles for breath; when she has stabilized, she lets Santana sink wholly to the floor, pinning her against the wall with the length of her body. Santana stretches to kiss the space behind her ear, and murmurs, “You still owe me.”

The only response is a choked growl, and Brittany’s arms spinning her around, holding her flush against a still-shuddering body. Her back presses against clothed breasts, small and round and so much like home, she almost can’t stand it; they face their reflection together, Brittany’s face rosy, Santana’s triumphant, and she thinks, _Yes. This will do for the rest of time. This is perfect._

Perfect like Brittany’s hips starting a steady rock against her ass again, and Brittany’s fingers bunching the shirt up on her abs, and Brittany’s hand cupping though her underwear. They watch together, the way Brittany’s fingertips smooth over, cradle her, trace the swollen outline of her clit through the thin, damp fabric. They watch, and Santana’s eyelashes flutter against the apple of her cheek, because Brittany’s expression is determined, and confident, and sexy. Brittany’s eyes are pitch-dark, her lashes long as she follows the glide of her own hand: middle two fingers stroking patiently as her free hand palms across Santana’s bare belly. Her fingers stroke up and down over Santana’s clit, tracing her opening through the stretch of the fabric, and Santana goes limp against her, breathing hard.

Brittany nips at her earlobe, tugging it into her hot mouth as her fingers trace up to the waistband and down again, inside, pressing firm between Santana’s legs until she groans. “There?” she asks, muffled and teasing, and Santana squeezes a shaking hand around her own breast, pinching the nipple in desperation.

Someone will be coming soon, she senses, to check on this suspiciously long-occupied stall, and if she doesn’t get off first—

“You—you’re supposed—“ she rasps, barely recognizing the low drawl of her own voice as Brittany’s fingers press experimentally to her entrance and then dodge away again. “You’re supposed to be on your knees.”

Brittany laughs throatily, and for a moment, Santana considers forgetting about the bet and her winnings entirely. She could just let Brittany do this here—watching their joined bodies in the mirror, watching the way Santana’s head bumps back against Brittany’s shoulder, her face turning desperately into Brittany’s neck, her body clenching around Brittany’s nimble fingers—

But she _won_ , and Brittany knows it. Brittany is already wheeling her around, guiding her gracelessly back to the seat in the corner and pushing her down. Brittany is following, her body slim and strong as it slides down Santana’s, her lips tracing over collarbone, her hands pushing the shirt up over heaving breasts. Brittany’s fingers drag the left cup of her bra aside, soft lips surrounding one tight nipple and sucking at it until Santana digs both hands into her hair and gasps. Brittany’s abs flex between her legs, flush against the crotch of her drenched underwear, and Santana pushes at her head with her palms, legs spreading wide.

Brittany’s kisses rain down her body—her tongue laps at the underside of her breast, traces the center of her stomach, catches on her bellybutton, and the edge of her underwear, and the curve of muscle at the peak of her thigh—her mouth lands, open and fresh, against the seam of dark panties, and Santana is already arching to meet her, already begging—

Brittany kisses her, hungry and slow at the same time, her lips wickedly parted and painfully gentle. She mouths at the swell of Santana’s clit where it rubs achingly against fabric, her tongue pressing to it with light friction and swirling in tiny circles until gray dots erupt behind Santana’s eyes. Her hands catch on Santana’s calves and swim upward, sleek and strong, lighting behind her knees, folding along the inner stretches of tight thighs. She fingers the edges of the underwear where it barely covers dark, desperate flesh, and pulls it aside just enough to slip underneath. To toy with the sticky skin beneath, to trace and tickle until Santana groans out her name in a fit of need.

Brittany between her legs is by far Brittany at her best; Brittany’s mouth opening around her entrance, tongue pushing slowly in through ruined fabric, is enough to make Santana believe in God, and miracles, and eternities of perfection. Brittany’s teeth tugging at her panties, her fingers easing them down trembling thighs, fill her with the kind of excitement that outstrips Christmas, and graduation, and every _win_ she has ever pulled off in her life.

And then Brittany is enveloping her, embracing her, drinking her in with slow, heady strokes. Brittany’s tongue is velvet, wrapped around her clit and suckling until Santana is forced to bite down on her own wrist to muffle the sounds; Brittany’s mouth is elegant, and greedy, and encasing her all at once. Her head bobs under the urging pressure of Santana’s palm, the bite of Santana’s nails into her scalp; her tongue presses at her, slips inside her an inch at a time, stretching her, making more of her than she’s ever been without Brittany here, and Santana rides against her face with a series of breathy moans she should be embarassed about making.

Santana rides, and Brittany pushes in and out with curling swipes. Santana groans, and Brittany breathes her in, and then tongue is making way for fingers, and fingers are crooking deep and hard, and that tongue is flattening against her clit and giving one last broad lick—

She’s coming, and bursting, and losing her mind to perfection, riding each little aftershock as it trails along on the edge of Brittany’s tiny kitten licks, the ones that bring her down and guide her right back up again for God only knows how long. Her fingers tangle in golden hair, yanking clumsily at the strands, and her teeth leave deep red blemishes on the soft inside of her wrist, and when Brittany lifts her head to smile, it undoes something in her. Each time Brittany does this—smiles, or touches her, or loves her—another invisible buckle comes undone, and Santana wonders how many could even be left. How many buckles could she still have, when Brittany has learned to unwravel so much of her, to open her to so many new feelings and expectations and experiences?

“I won,” Santana says breathlessly, and it feels like it means so much more than just a bet. Brittany slides up her body, kissing her with parted lips and brazen tongue, tasting of wet and hot and _her_ , and she shudders even as her arms weave around Brittany’s shoulders.

“You’re sexy,” Brittany tells her when they part. “And you’re buying that shirt.”

“ _You’re_ buying this shirt,” Santana corrects. “Because I would not be caught dead buying a damn comic book anything.”

“Fine,” Brittany replies, nosing against her neck and grinning. “I’ll buy it. But you’re wearing it tonight when you ride the strap-on.”

Her gut clenches pleasurably; Santana smirks. “I thought it was my call. ‘Cuz I won.”

“Do you not want to ride me?” Brittany teases. Santana laughs, kissing her boldly until the heartbeat pounding against her own speeds again.

“How do you always seem to get what you want, no matter what?”

Brittany’s forehead nudges at hers, eyelashes tickling her skin. “Because I want you,” she says honestly, and Santana can’t help but inhale shakily in response.

“Okay. But you still didn’t get your skirt.”

“Oh. Right.” Brittany wrinkles her nose, pushing to her feet and collecting Santana’s jeans from the floor. “That first. Then hot, wild, Batman sex.”

As Brittany adjusts her own clothing and flips the latch on the dressing room door, Santana has the sneaking suspicion _shopping_ will take on a brand new meaning after today. A brand new “we could get thrown out of our favorite store, and arrested, and strung up for Sapphic love” kind of meaning.

Which, really, just makes her want to do it even more.  



End file.
